Free The Year of Living Danishly by Helen Russell Page B

they’re called. Instead of asking a colleague if you can ‘have a sit down’ to chat, you have a ‘stand up’ instead. ‘And we’re done in half the time,’ says Lego Man.
    He also tells me that no one uses titles and no one wears a tie – in fact you’re more likely to see executives mooching about in hoodies, Facebook-style, than in suits. Somehow, I manage to persuade Lego Man to let me visit him at work for lunch (after promising to adhere to several conditions, namely not to mention the ABBA sing-song or ask for any drumming demonstrations). There’s a laid-back Silicon-Valley-meets-Google-HQ vibe from the moment I step inside the glass-fronted head office in Billund’s sleepy residential centre. I get comfy on the circular sofas, moulded to look like the relief of the iconic Lego brick, and contemplate whether or not it would be bad form to have a play with the giant pool of white bricks in the reception area. Lego Man meets me and escorts me through the office and we pass meeting rooms, all named after toys. This is something I find reassuring after a few weeks of hearing my husband on the phone talking about a 9.30am in Tinsoldaten – ‘Tin Soldier’ – followed by a session in Bamse – ‘Teddy Bear’. Each room has a vast glass bowl of Lego in the middle of the table to encourage employees and guests to build as they talk. ‘I can barely hear a word in some meetings for the noise of people raking through bowls for the right brick,’ Lego Man tells me.
    Lego isn’t just another business in Denmark – it’s a way of life. A cultural beacon inspiring a cult-like dedication. Danes are proud of their country’s most famous export, which now has parents in socked feet cursing as they stand on upturned blocks in 130 countries worldwide. There is a massive online community of adult fans of Lego, or AFOLs as they like to call themselves (‘Not “geeks who can’t get girlfriends”?’ I ask Lego Man, doubtfully. ‘No,’ he tells me, sternly. ‘I’ll have you know that David Beckham and Brad Pitt have both come out as AFOLs so I’m in prestigious company, actually …’). The Lego Movie broke box office records in 2014 and its message of creativity, teamwork and the ‘power of play’ made such a splash that it garnered more column inches than any children’s film to date and even attracted accusations of anti-capitalist propaganda. ‘Trotskyite’ Lego execs were delighted with the extra ticket and toy sales this free PR engendered, and a few younger minds were inspired to try living a little more Danishly.
    After lunch (rye bread, salad and pork, as promised, with not a whiff of sucrose), I wangle myself a tour of the factory to see what all the fuss is about and am joined by some tourists from Japan who’ve flown in especially for the honour. I see where the minifigures are made, from their yellow smiling faces to their u-shaped hands and clip-on helmet hair. A couple of misprints are brutally discarded, with only the most pristine toys allowed to pass through to the boxing area to be packed by elves … I mean ‘workers’.
    Lego isn’t the cheapest toy on the shelves, but quality is prized above all else. The founder, Ole Kirk Christiansen, once scolded his son, Godtfred, for announcing proudly that he’d managed to save money on paint by applying a thinner coat to each toy. Ole instructed him to recall the whole consignment and repaint each one, saying, ‘only the best is good enough’ – a phrase since adopted as the Lego motto.
    Today, the company is estimated to be worth $14.6 billion (or £8.6 billion) and is the biggest toymaker in the world. There are 560 billion Lego pieces in existence, or 86 for each person on the planet (though having never been much of a Lego fan growing up, I can’t help wondering who’s